


Kudzu

by MisterPseudonymous



Category: Boruto: Naruto Next Generations, Naruto
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Probably a happy ending, Reader-Insert, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-03-12 02:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13537776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisterPseudonymous/pseuds/MisterPseudonymous
Summary: A field of verdant kudzu vines choking out the light of their still-seeing eyes, but the flowers are oh so fair.Who should fault the vine?





	1. Uh, Running on Down to the Hole in the City

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to make a Kankuro fic for basically forever. First chap is a prologue, but chapter lengths should still be roughly the same. Hope y'all enjoy.

The moon was trapped in the window, you decided, pale light illuminating the days old grime on your face. Sure, logically you knew that to be a falsity, that the moon was not truly captured, but who could deny the opinion you carried in your own thoughts—the conviction in your heart?

The moon was trapped in the window as you were trapped in a cell. An ever present companion in your solitude. 

As if to further remind you of your predicament, your jailor ran his hands against the barring beams, a hollow sound resounding in the silence. He knew that it would do little to prevent your escape.

But you knew he'd prehend you just as quick. You did not want to hurt them—certainly not him.

“Against better judgment, I’m trusting you not to escape.” The face he wore with red paint was angry, harsh lines reforming the edges of his eyes and mouth, but you could see his true face underneath.

Sorrow. Longing. But no regret—he had his own conviction.

You made no attempt to quell that bitter, biting laugh. “You just want to take me apart and see how I work.”

He frowned, turning away. “I want to help you before I’ve no choice but to hurt you.”

“There is always a choice, Kankuro.”

He snapped back, facing you with the irascibility to finally match his meticulous paint. “You _chose_ to threaten the daimyo’s life.”

You shrugged noncommittally, adjusting your seated position to lean against the cooling wood, facing away from him. “As a result of the choices he made.”

The moon faded momentarily from a passing cloud.

He tossed an old hitai-ate, rusted and damaged by age and not from use, a thing that should have been abandoned long ago. “As you _chose_ this?” He questioned, triumphant tones raising the cadence of his voice. He wanted to hit a nerve—show you that he _knew what that hitai-ate represented._ But his actions were petty and foolish.

You gave him nothing, and he walked away, footfalls heavy whereas they should be soundless. It gave away the seed sowed in his heart; revealed the weakness in his conviction.

But your mind reminisced of how it began, of how it ended. For who could deny the conviction of your still beating heart?


	2. A Head Full of Smoke and a Heart With No Pity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The original title of the story was "OZYMANDIAN", but it didn't fit with the overall tone and plot. Glad I found a way to snake that back in tho.

_Clouds rolled overhead, spurned by acheronian winds preluding the dusking hour. The cry of crickets cascaded into a calming chorus, but were they warning of predators, seeking a mate, singing simply to sing? You did not know, taking a sip of warmed sake in a delicate cup held precariously with your two stiff palms—courtesy of the decanter partially embedded in the sun-baked sands._

_You did not know the reason for the cricket-song, but you enjoyed the approaching night—the boundless sky bursting into a nimiety of bold oranges and reds and violets before dimming into something much darker, much deeper, milky pinprick stars emerging from a day-long slumber._

_Though you knew the stars were always there, it wasn’t what you_ felt _. Hell, there were even rumors that the visible stars likely died a long, long time ago. But these stars above, dead or alive, were with you_ now _, atop a sandy dune, basking in the revels of the encroaching night._

_As you also knew you were not often alone on your nightly gazing, you casted a glance to the churning sands always moving just ever out of sight. Sometimes you saw a monster within, as things unseen were wont to be—until revealed, rather. One’s imagination birthed the most frightening creations._

_Another laborious sip of the quickly cooling sake, another futile sidelong stare, another question unanswered, “Will you be a silent companion this night?” For there had been many nights with many queries and your aphonic companion remained ever so._

_“That’s fine. You do as you will, just as I do.”_

_You closed your eyes, savoring the feeling of fading warmth, the rise of chilling inclemency, shivering at the sensation of gooseflesh on your skin. But you were fine, you knew these fickle, abiding sands._

_But the cries came unremittingly, killing the peaceful stillness with shrill terror, and fire—your now open eyes witnessed—fire burning in the little shanty of a village, created from broken remnants of an Ozymandian kingdom long lost, long forgotten, and long without a name._

_Sebonehari was not a place for violence, not now; not ever._

_“My night-long friend, care to lend a hand?” you could not contain the tremor in your voice. You did not want to do this alone. Your arms hurt, and you dropped the tiny cup, sake spilling into the sands._

_But he was gone, as you expected. You did not fault the monster, however, for he had his reasons. Just as you had yours._

_You walked toward the burning village, thinking of the faces of those that cared for you. If you did not succeed, you would die trying—nothing else mattered._


	3. Keep Sliding Down the Slippery Pole to the Edge of the Night

In silence your gaze slowly devoured, savored the veritable feast before you. Fragrant ginger-turmeric soup, rice, and thinly sliced _beef_. Steam rose, slightly distorting the air as if a mirage.

“What is this?” you questioned his unpainted face, his skin a shade shy of legitimate tan—there was a notable vulnerability, a softness to him—and a redness to his weary, sleepless eyes. The shinobi world—nay the _world_ itself—does not succor frailty. He should have been the one left behind.

“A meal,” he smirked, hiding behind false mirth. “It’s not poisoned.”

His blatant rhetoric failed to amuse you, and you had not the patience to play into it, not this day. If Kankuro wanted to poison you, he would have done so far more easily and directly. He need not waste a perfectly fine meal.

“Why are you doing this?”

He sucked in his breath, closing his eyes as he leaned back, away from you.   
“We’ve never had a meal together.” His logic was simple. So painfully, uncharacteristically naive it made you retch.

From your periphery, a shinobi gave you a brierly glare sharper than the kunai he grinded with a smooth whetsone. The blade would break ere long. 

It was surreal; it was ludicrous.

Because you were the prisoner.

“What are you doing?” You changed the query to better represent your lack of comprehension. His _actions_ did not reflect his _role_.

“Isn’t it obvious?” His index finger traced the edges of a small cup in lieu of a direct response. 

You wanted to flip the low table over and ruin all his innocuous, misplaced, and grossly out of place intentions. But you held back, kept your ire quelled. “If I said I wanted braised eel, would you get it?”

“Who am I,” you rose, looming over the jonin sitting too casually and continued callously, “and who are you?”

The rhythmic sound of steel against stone ceased, the silent observer to your display tensed, ever ready to resort to violence.

Kankuro crossed his arms, scowl marring his features. “Can’t we just eat?”

“We can’t go back to the past, and I won’t give you want you want.”

He rested on his knuckles, dark eyes searching your face for a sign of something, anything that was not there. “And if I want both,” his voice echoed firmly, belying the hope he so desperately reached for. There was honesty bleeding from his wavering eyes—no one was skilled enough to fake that.

Unbridled sunlight poured in from your cell’s solitary window, separating you both by a harsh line of light and leaving the remainder in a state of fabricated gloam.

“You’ll get neither.”

He huffed, sipping from his cup while mulling over your words, over his muddled thoughts. “I know you're not a bad person.”

“Why?” You seated yourself, regaining composure. You could not give him anything, not even body language. Not any more.

The _shk-shhk_ resumed, counting the moments of awkward silence as the second hand of a clock counts the passing of time.

“When we first met… that was you. The _real_ you.”

“I seem to recall we were both using false identities.” Gaze level and unblinking, you stretched out the pause, “Relationships built on deception will never be true.”

Kankuro crossed his arms, turning his head away from your scrutiny. “I don't believe that.”

“Believe what you will.” A calm clarity washed over you, cold and distant and inert. You picked up your chopsticks and ate—not because he swayed you but because he did not understand you. There was no purpose to explain your resistance; that the food before you required more labor in an environs that mandated the utmost frugality… that his flagrant display of authority near-epitomized the corruption you so detested.

So he smiled, and you ate to regain your strength.

He could not keep you forever. Eventually Kankuro would have to interrogate you, regardless of his _perceived sentiment_. Likely not this night, but soon.

As the meal ended—you offered generic, noncommittal responses to his casual banter—he placed all of the dishes and utensils on a utilitarian tray to carry out. The thought of purloining the chopsticks entertained you briefly, but they would be noticed.

Kankuro departed, his footfalls weightless, scintillant torchlight danced along his retreating form, bathing him both in shadow and in light.

You sat in the rays of the descending sun, relishing the moment and falling into deep meditation.

It felt like minutes when your eyes opened, but the moon hanging in your window disagreed. The scent of petrichor pulled you from your reverie, moisture building on the back of your neck.

And just like that, both scent and sensation were gone as if imagined—for this was the dry season.

But you remembered… you remembered the night it rained over Sebonehari.


	4. Take Me Out and Breathe Me In, I Hold a Ten Ton Hammer to Your Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would not end! Most typos, if any, should be in the latter half.

_A profound silence often lingered before acts of violence, especially if stemming from an emotional state._

_They wailed; you screamed. But all you could hear was the thrumming of your adrenaline fueled heart against your chest, the incessant pounding in your ears, the thump of your feet hitting the sand hard._

_Because you had a face to the anger boiling in your veins, a face blotched with burns from the unforgiving desert sun—he either had no protection or did not care. Oh, but he would hurt so much more if you struck him._

_The nightly gale stirred the sands like cold fingers running through silken hair, fanning the hissing flames eating away your home. Between every ebb of the wind, heat tickled your face._

_You charged, ignoring reason advising against a direct assault. You should surprise him, use a diversionary tactic to create an ideal scenario. You could even follow him back for intel or simply slit his throat in his sleep. Recklessly charging in was for brutes or the ridiculously strong—you were neither, you weren’t even whole._

_But he—he stared back imperiously, grinning through viciously sharp teeth, manic eyes gleaming under a mane of unkempt verdigrisy hair. He was the enemy, the one at fault, the cause._

_You would be the cure._

_Using momentum, your bum rush morphed into a sideways kick, rotating your planted left foot to add to the power. It connected, or rather, the man grabbed hold to block, and held your limb in place to keep your movements in check._

_You had made a mistake compounded upon another—you acted before weighing your capabilities… besides the fact that you forgot to add chakra to the blow. Too many years without a fight dulled the blade, it seemed._

_But you were no toothless tiger. Your blunder would become your boon._

_Dropping to your left palm, only for balance as you hardly trusted its full faculty, you kicked his abdomen with your free leg, chakra pulsing warmly throughout your body, sending oddly nostalgic but impossible tingles down your arms. Most importantly, the energy pooled and released where you made contact._

_He did not expect it; he was not ready. He went flying, releasing his grip, and crashed into a mound of shifting sand several feet away._

_You did not relent—you couldn't afford to. How long could you—_

_A downward stomp to his mangy mess of green hair became slightly smoldering debris. Kawarimi. He was no common brigand, you feared._

_He kept hidden, waiting for an opening. Because that was what ninja were trained to do—what you were trained to do._

_He wouldn't recklessly rush in with dangerous abandon, and he wasn't fueled or invested with emotional turmoil like you._

_So you turned to and fro, only half-heartedly trying to locate him. You much preferred playing the part of an inept combatant, feeding his confidence. “Come out, you cowardly dog!” Flailing your arms for effect, your ears—your other senses—strained, waiting._

_Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. This battle of attrition stringently relied upon you hurting him insurmountably more with every opportunity. You could not and would not win the long game._

_He moved with utmost care, using only the ball of his foot, stride quick and precise. Truly, he should have been undetected._

_But he was not. For his tactic was flawless nearly anywhere else, a clear testament that he did not live long in the deserts of Kaze no Kuni._

_To you, his rhythmic maneuver contrasted jarringly against the consonance of the night. He should have expended more chakra to make his steps lighter, as if on water, and slide along the sandy surface—a much more natural sound as when wind met sand._

_So you acted unaware, and he was none the wiser._

_The hair on the back of your neck rose, you could feel the air displaced from his punch. Ducking under his fist at the last moment, you snapped your leg in a high kick connecting with his jaw. It cracked, you prayed it broke. He deserved to suffer more._

_He recovered mid stumble, retreating with a grand backwards leap and shooting slender needles from his mouth. Not wanting to lose proximity again, you blocked with an arm instead of dodging—every second, every inch mattered—and rushed headlong. The man grinned widely, and it took you a moment too long to realize—needles meant poison._

_But he made the mistake. He never never noticed that the arms under your bandages were nothing more than poor prosthetics._

_You exchanged blows and parries, hair breadth dodges and nimble feints. He seemed to enjoy prolonging the fight with taijutsu rather than unsheathe the ninjato at his hip in an attempt to garner further advantage. Then again, you have been stumbling more and slowing your kicks gradually._

_Wouldn’t the cat prefer playing with the mouse?_

_A flat palm to your chest sent you reeling to your knees, you barely fought the impulse to turn with the hit and sideswipe his legs out from under—that would not end the bout. His stance changed, hands forming seals to a technique you did not recognize._

_He assumed you immobile, that the poison coursed unchecked through your veins._

_While he casually went through the motions of a complex and obviously specialized technique, you focused your mental acuity on a single arm, a single hand, willing your wooden digits to **move**. _

_Tiger. Hare. Dog. Ram. Dragon._

_Booming thunder reverberated moments before heavy rain fell, cold against the heat of your skin._

_But you were ready before him—springing into action—kicking twice in rapid succession, sending blades of cutting wind aimed at his torso._

_While the cat played, the snake takes the kill._

_He survived, though his chest little more than a bloody ruin, you took solace in the small comfort that you stopped the latter portion of his jutsu. He unsheathed the straight-edged ninjato, bleeding profusely but murder in his eyes._

_He charged, the rain enhancing his speed. If he was in crippling pain, he did not show it._

_As his blade fell, you turned it aside with a snapping kick, readying follow up with another hit to his chest. But he let the blade be turned, only to bring it under your extended leg and within range for a nigh-lethal thrust lest you retreat._

_That was an expected move, however._

_Instead you dropped to your back and kicked his kneecaps with both feet._

_A tendril of sand wrenched the ninjato from his grasp as he fell, tossing it aside like a discarded toy. He stared blankly at his empty hand, at you in confusion._

_You simply used his distraction to land another whirlwind kick to his face, but he escaped once more with kawarimi._

_But this time, he did not return._

_The sand had not been your doing, but you had a decent idea._


End file.
